T U M U L T
Beqanna, she says, and his face creases into a nearly invisible frown. He has never heard of a place by this name, which means he must have traveled further than he had initially thought. He was familiar with the lands that surrounded his birthplace, but only vaguely so. Paying attention and storing information had never been much of his strong-suit, and he decides to assume he simply forgot, perhaps having deemed the place unimportant, or too far away to be concerned with.
“Ah,” he answers her with a nod, appreciative of her explanation, and then his lips quirk into a smile. “I like names that explain what they are. No guesswork or surprises that way.” He wonders what the other lands must be like, or what they are named, but he does not ask. Something tells him that she does not live in any of them; she looks too at home in this body of water, as if she sprang from it and has lived here since, simply waiting for lost and confused strangers to happen by.
“I’m not from here,” is all he says at first. He is not from here, that is true, but his tongue no longer seems to be able to remember the name of where he was from. He reaches for it, searches through the clouds and haze of his memories, but returns empty handed. He must be more tired than he realized, and he tries to quell the panic that he can feel roiling within his ribs. His memory has never failed him before, and while he has been able to brush off being unable to recall how he got here, or exactly when he had crossed the threshold that landed him here; being unable to remember the place of his birth was for more unnerving.
He clears his throat, hoping that she will not see the confusion that flickers like a storm in his gray eyes. “The name is unimportant,” he says, before hastily adding, “but my name is Tumult.”
“Ah,” he answers her with a nod, appreciative of her explanation, and then his lips quirk into a smile. “I like names that explain what they are. No guesswork or surprises that way.” He wonders what the other lands must be like, or what they are named, but he does not ask. Something tells him that she does not live in any of them; she looks too at home in this body of water, as if she sprang from it and has lived here since, simply waiting for lost and confused strangers to happen by.
“I’m not from here,” is all he says at first. He is not from here, that is true, but his tongue no longer seems to be able to remember the name of where he was from. He reaches for it, searches through the clouds and haze of his memories, but returns empty handed. He must be more tired than he realized, and he tries to quell the panic that he can feel roiling within his ribs. His memory has never failed him before, and while he has been able to brush off being unable to recall how he got here, or exactly when he had crossed the threshold that landed him here; being unable to remember the place of his birth was for more unnerving.
He clears his throat, hoping that she will not see the confusion that flickers like a storm in his gray eyes. “The name is unimportant,” he says, before hastily adding, “but my name is Tumult.”
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
@[Agnieszka]